The Voice of the Sea
by Axia West
Summary: Cal's suicide attempt doesn't go quite as planned. When he returns to his home and family he finds things much as they were until his father's scheming brings a mysterious woman to visit.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters of Cal, his father, etc. Please do not publish this story elsewhere without my permission. Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

**Spring 1930**

We do what we can. We do what we must. When we see a burrowing, bright light we instinctively move toward it. And when—as if in the worst nightmare or a dark, unwelcome daydream—there is no light, then what?

Cal's jaw ached as if it had gone missing altogether. He opened his eyes slowly, weakly, testing their strength against the insistent glow of the overhead lamps. There was a terrible, acrid smell filling his nose and that aching… He tried to move his hands but his body was leaden, useless. With a groan he blinked again, rapidly, feeling drunk and slow and uncertain. Through the blinding haze of white lights he saw a pale, drawn face with squinting eyes.

"Cal?"

He knew that voice. Vaguely he knew it, as if it arose from a long forgotten childhood that he had not lived but witnessed. Gradually, recognition dawned. Cal tried to respond but his mouth was sluggish, unresponsive.

"It's quite alright," the voice said again. Now it was attached to a pair of thin, withered lips painted with a dark finish of red lacquer. "Don't try to speak, darling. Don't worry now, I'm here."

Despite her words, he worried. He worried very much. The last thing he could remember, other than the dark, deep and dreaming sleep he had just risen from, was the balcony and the shiny, slender eye staring him down. And there was a noise buried in his subconscious, a loud, ringing bang. Cal tried to shift his weight and even that tiny movement made his face throb with pain. Someone was holding his hand, squeezing the life out of it.

"Everything's alright dear, everything is just fine now."

This woman, this woman speaking to him as if they knew each other intimately, who was she? Cal squinted at her again, lifting his head to take in the size and shape of her face. She was not ugly, but faintly repellant, with a too-large forehead and unnaturally skinny eyebrows. They were too small for her face and for the dark slits that made up her eyes. She was covered in make-up, cakey, thick make up that gathered in her crow's feet and the corners of her red, red lips. She must have registered his confusion, for she squeezed his hand again, her long nails digging crescent moons into his palm.

"It's Miriam, darling. Your wife. Miriam."

Yes, of course. Miriam his wife. Had her voice always been so high and whining? Cal looked beyond her shoulder. His father stood back in the shadows but Cal recognized him, would recognize that coat and that huge, crooked nose anywhere. Life—memories--were returning.

"Son," his father said, taking a big step forward. "Hello, son."

That was alright. What else was a father to say when his son had just attempted suicide? Cal laughed, a hard, grating laugh that rasped his throat. He had botched it. He couldn't even kill himself without screwing it up. Miriam was cutting off circulation to his hand now and maybe her desperation was right, maybe she knew what he was thinking about. His jaw ached again. Was it gone?

Miriam touched his cheek with the back of her clammy hand. "Have the medicines worn off, dear?"

Cal shook his head and then shrugged. His mouth was still slow to respond and his throat hurt from his first attempt at laughter.

"Oh let him be, Miriam," his father said, shaking his head impatiently.

Miriam obeyed, scuttling back into the shadows, clasping her hands to her chest and wringing them. Cal's eyes shifted over her tawny fur coat to his father's long, black trench. He looked like an undertaker. Cal noticed the bulge of a cigar in his father's coat pocket. Nathan Hockley stepped up to the bedside, his eyes sweeping over Cal appraisingly, as if he were a piece of broken machinery at the mill.

"That was a damn fool thing to do, Cal."

Cal opened his mouth to argue but Nathan held up a gloved hand, calling for silence. Behind him, Miriam began to cry silently. "It was a damn fool thing. And if you try that again, son, I'll finish you off myself."

And then he was gone. Cal smiled, wanly; that was what passed for father-son bonding in his family. He wanted to laugh again but remembered the pain. Miriam rushed forward, her tears smudging the thick kohl of her eyeliner. She looked like a clown, a horrible, old clown. He had married this woman?

"Don't listen to him," she pleaded, taking his poor, abused hand again. "Don't you dare listen."

"Don't tell me… what to do," he croaked. Icy pain laced his throat like a collar. Miriam's face fell, collecting in a pile of wrinkles around her mouth and chin, like a melted basset hound. What had she expected? Had she thought the bullet might cleanly excise the part of Cal's brain that made him cold and remote? Miriam collected herself, plastering on a fake smile.

"You were so lucky," she said, wiping futilely at her tears and making more of a mess. "I don't know what I would've done if… But you're alright, darling! You're alright and tomorrow I can take you home."

Cal stared at her, lost as to what to say. Home. That, like the concept of time or gravity or the universe, was too bizarre to grasp. She was talking in quaint generalities to make him feel better. He had no home, not really. His life with Miriam consisted of precisely timed intervals of civility broken up by longer periods of open hostility in which neither of them spoke but both of them drank heavily. These bad spots tended to coincide with Miriam's many lovers. The fact that she was unfaithful did not bother him; the fact that all he had to return to was a depressing sham did.

Miriam turned around, embarrassed, and began fixing her make-up in her compact. Cal wondered if he ought to feel distressed or shamed but he felt nothing, just a bleak disappointment. He had failed to outrun everything he despised and now he was back, back to the world of the living, back to Miriam and his father and the cold, dragging life of a man with everything and nothing.

* * *

The house at Webster Avenue looked alarmingly familiar as Cal ducked out of the black Bentley. For some reason he had expected to feel a pang of relief at the first sight of the old sprawling mansion with the imposing front archway and meticulously-kept gardens. The house sat far back from the street, allowing room for an intricate spread of roses and hedges. Miriam was at his side as he stood and beheld the front of the house. She fussed over him endlessly, scolding him for this and that, irritating him as he looked at his house and realized for the first time that it bore a remarkable resemblance to an institution for the criminally insane. The windows were dark, drawn, empty except for damask curtains.

It was March, unseasonably warm for that time of year. A few jonquils had managed to shove their way up through the wet earth to show their green and yellow faces to the world. The market had crashed in October, Cal thought with a smirk as he drifted up the paved drive toward the door, and it had only taken him three months to decide that living was no longer a reasonable option. He wondered briefly if Miriam would understand, if she would empathize with his total lack of interest in life and the trivial, petty interactions contained within. His attitude, his mood as he had stood on that balcony a week ago was still sharp in his mind. It didn't bother him, not at all, rather it intrigued him that his brain had chosen to store the memory with perfect clarity.

There had been no subconscious attempt to stifle his moment of greatest despair and weakness. He remembered every minute of it in excruciating detail. There was the empty Scotch glass on the ground and the cold, small gun in his hand and then there was his life, his life that stretched out in front of him as one repetitive, meaningless game.

Cal glanced down at Miriam on his arm. She looked straight ahead, leading him to the front of the house with a smug little smile of victory, as if she herself were somehow responsible for his triumph over death. Insufferable. No, she wouldn't understand his reasons, the vast, boundless disgust of his life and everything it entailed, including her. He smiled, almost hysterical as Miriam paused at the door and waited for the butler to let them inside. His house and he couldn't be expected to open the door with his own hand.

Inside, the manor was overly-warm, choked with smoke from the fireplaces and the buttery smell of candles. Miriam, when she was around, kept the house stifling, like a brick furnace with chintzy curtains. Cal felt out of place. He had never expected to see this place again. On the floor of the northwest balcony, lying in a growing pool of his own blood, he had felt a tremendous joy run over his body, a shiver like an orgasm, consuming and frightening. At the time he had thought it was his soul releasing, rushing out of his body like a last hard breath. Now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps death was a kind of pleasure, a pleasure that had been robbed from him at the very last second.

He wanted it back.

The front hall calling table and the desk in the butler's entryway overflowed with hot house daisies and sunflowers. Cheery. Miriam strayed, veering off to hold up one of the nicer vases and show it to him, as if he were a dull child who couldn't figure it for himself. The inundation of flowers and cards struck him as odd. This implied that there was concrete acknowledgement of his entirely uncivilized behavior or that there was some level of sympathy flitting through the rich ranks of the Pittsburgh elite. Cal was not stupid enough to feel touched by these empty gestures, which—while outwardly attractive and expensive—did nothing to ease his sense that he was being laughed at. He glanced at one of the cards in passing.

_Our deepest condolences on your accident. Here's to a speedy recovery!_

So that was the explanation. It made a sad kind of sense. In Miriam's mind there was no such thing as suicide. The idea, the concept simply didn't exist in her world. A gun discharging accidentally, on a balcony in the middle of the night with no cleaning or polishing products around - to her that was a more likely scenario than suicide. And that was why there were flowers. Either way, Cal thought with a sneer, their friends were still laughing at his expense.

It was just before dinner time and Cal was hungry, half-starved from the measly hospital portions. Miriam shucked her ragged fur coat and escorted him into the dining room. The sconces and chandelier blazed, a welcome home party without guests. The servants were all there waiting, lined up like toy soldiers against the right wall. They looked like part of the house, part of the furniture, so clean and polished in their black and white uniforms. The maids and valets bowed their heads respectfully, each of them searching the floor. Cal knew they were frightened of him, that his ageless temper had turned them into kicking posts. Their presence made him uncomfortable, as if they had been trotted out to make him feel guilty. _Look_, they seemed to say, _you almost left all of us behind!_

The dining table was ready, the silver gleaming in the warm yellow light twinkling down from the chandelier. Cal waited but didn't take his seat at the head of the table. He couldn't remember the last time he and Miriam had sat down to dinner together, alone. Nathan Hockley shuffled in behind them.

"I said Kiwi Dark Tan you idiot! You expect me to put this anywhere near my shoes? What kind of garbage is this?"

Cal heard a crash and the smallest whimper from his butler. Nathan stomped up behind them, his face the color of a boiled beet. "Unbelievable," he muttered, brushing invisible dirt from his shoulders, "You'd think your man would know how to polish a shoe, Caledon."

"Oh Nathan, I'm sure Jeffrey is just distraught," Miriam said in a meaningful tone. She was, of course, implying that their butler was somehow moved by Cal's brush with death. It wasn't so; Jeffrey was perfectly competent. Cal was certain and had been for years that the butler took great pleasure in going out of his way to make Nathan Hockley's life a little worse. Cal never intervened to set the butler straight.

"You should fire that fool," Nathan added, going to sit down at the head of the table. Cal didn't argue, going to sit beside Miriam.

"Jeffrey's been with us since we were married," Miriam replied. They had staged this argument before, in almost the exact same language. "I couldn't fire him. He's part of the house, practically part of the family."

"Don't be sentimental," Nathan replied, settling into his chair with a grunt. He was old and getting fatter by the minute. The chair creaked under his substantial girth. One of the servants made a tiny cough to cover the chair's righteous protest.

"I've had them mash something for you," Miriam said grandly, patting Cal's hand as they each sat staring at the cutlery. She was enjoying playing the nurse entirely too much. Cal wanted a drink but Miriam moved the decanter out of his reach, prompting him to take a long, petulant swig of water.

"It better not be mutton again," Nathan said, running his pudgy red hand over his mustache, "I can't stand mutton."

Miriam said nothing. It would probably be mutton. Cal wanted very much to speak up but his voice was still tender and talking made the roof of his mouth shriek with pain. Complaining about the food was just another way for Nathan to point out the precarious financial state of Hockley Steel. If he could, Cal would have mentioned that at least they could still afford fresh meat--unlike most of the country--and that the old whiner should be happy with mutton or Cal would feed him shoe leather instead. Miriam tried to pat his hand again; Cal pulled it down into his lap.

The food arrived and Cal grimaced as the dome on his plate went up to reveal a sedate pile of mashed yams with a little gooey sliver of butter floating on top. He saw Miriam's hand twitch, as if she meant to feed him, and he shot her a subduing look. What he wanted to say was: You will spoon feed me over my dead body.

Cal grinned, making Miriam recoil. _Over my dead body_. What a riot.

She tried to open Cal's napkin and arrange it for him; he jerked his head away.

"Oh for God's sake, Miriam!" Nathan thundered, slamming down his fork and knife. "He's a grown man. Stop treating him like he's some kind of _cripple_."

Without another word, Nathan attacked his mutton, devouring it like a wild animal. Miriam couldn't look at him but Cal could. He studied his father closely, noting with satisfaction that his father was back to his old self. Either Nathan had anticipated that Cal might one day try to do away with himself or the incident had registered as just another irritating inconvenience. Work at the mills had probably stalled for an afternoon while Nathan begrudgingly visited the hospital to see his son. Lost revenue, reputations damaged, that was the way Nathan saw the world. Cal spooned a mouthful of the flavorless yams down his throat, grimacing at the greasy aftertaste. One of the logs in the fire place split open, belching a shower of sparks against the grate.

"I'll need to speak with you tomorrow," Nathan muttered, dabbing at his mustache with his napkin. Cal nodded. This meant that there was business to see to and that Miriam didn't need to hear about it. It also meant that Cal was still considered part of the inner circle; in the grander scheme—the _important_ scheme--his "accident" had meant nothing.

Dinner crawled by. Nathan mumbled about the mill, about contracts and new opportunities and the future. Miriam made small noises in the back of her throat, agreeing with Nathan when she remembered to, pretending that her opinion registered and mattered. Cal watched all of this with his mouth full of mashed yams. He wanted it to be full of Scotch, but Miriam had hovered over the decanter like a cursed old mythological guardian lording over a powerful relic. It was only Scotch, but judging by the jealous gleam in her eyes it represented something more, a return to their old life, his old ways.

When the dessert course was over and the candles had burned low, Nathan excused himself, slamming Cal on the back with a congratulatory man to man pat. _Congratulations_, Cal thought, _things can go back to normal now that you've gotten that nonsense out of your system_. This was affection. Cal thanked his father, for what he wasn't sure, and saw him out. Already, things were ordinary again. Even though he couldn't speak or laugh or argue, things were slipping back into their regular pattern. Nathan departed, stuffing his hat down onto his gray head with a ruffling of his thick mustache.

"I'll stop by tomorrow," Nathan said on his way out, "We have something to discuss."

Cal shut the door before Nathan could say more. He was tired of business, exhausted by the thought of returning to the mills and the stuffy, cold offices with their clouds of cigar smoke and quiet, whispered agreements. On his way to bed he took the Scotch decanter from the dinner table, cradling it to his chest.

Miriam waited for him outside their bedroom door. This was unusual. Cal couldn't remember the last time they had slept in the same bed; Miriam's obsession with young blonde men meant she was almost always spending the night elsewhere. But there she waited, clad in a bright, silk robe with loud bursts of magenta flowers across the shoulders and chest. She looked like a prostitute, worn out and desperately painted. Her eyes ghosted over the Scotch decanter but she didn't comment on it.

"Good night," she said, lingering outside the double doors leading to their marital room. Cal grinned, running his hand over his smooth, clean-shaven jaw; this was as awkward for her as it was for him. He nodded his head down the hall.

"Do you want to sleep in the guest room?" Miriam asked, her red lips turning down at the corners.

Cal nodded gravely, theatrically, holding his throat for emphasis.

"Of course," Miriam said, backing away from their suite as if it housed the flames of hell. "But let me sleep there, you must be exhausted. I'll take the guest room tonight, and you just try to rest, alright darling?"

Cal stayed still, letting her go up on tiptoes to brush her dry, withered lips against his cheek. He felt the greasy smudge of her lipstick and held back a shudder.

"I'm so glad…" she said, trailing off, "Well, I'm just so glad. Good night."

It was the truth, a cunning truth. Without Cal she might be penniless, destitute, too old to find a new husband, left to live on whatever scraps Nathan tossed at her. Cal frowned as she turned away and sauntered back down the hall. Miriam would never die. That was why he had killed himself, to get away from her. She was too mired in this aristocratic life they led, a symbol of a tradition, a status that was rapidly eroding in the landslide of women's rights and forward thinking. Miriam didn't want forward thinking. Miriam feared independence. She wanted to stay as she was, supported by a man, using her uselessness, her leisurely co-dependence as a sort of talisman. Miriam would never, ever die and that was why—in the end--Cal had to take matters into his own hands.

She was gone, the last flourish of her magenta robe vanishing into the shadows of the long, silent hall. Candles flickered in the wall sconces, the electric lamps turned down to save money. Cal slipped into their bedroom, massaging the tightness in his neck. He hoped his voice would return soon but knew that little would change when it did. He had run out of patience with Miriam years ago and stopped indulging her even before their honeymoon was over. Her one redeeming feature was that she put up tirelessly with his black moods. Miriam was an uncomplaining sort and for sixteen years that had been enough.

Cal pulled off his heavy black coat and tossed it carelessly in the direction of the wardrobe. His shirt, tie, undershirt, shoes, belt and pants soon followed.

Curious, he went to the full length mirror that was propped against the wall next to the wardrobe. Cal had used this mirror thousands of times before, scrutinizing his appearance before dinner parties and balls and key business meetings. Now he looked at himself with a different kind of intent. He stood in his white, crisp shorts and let the immensity of solitude roll over him. Finally he was alone, and yet he felt watched, as if a million unseen eyes cluttered up the walls of his most intimate chamber, judging and studying his every move.

There he was, almost nude, standing in front of a reflection that made him feel nothing. Was it wrong, _strange_, that he could remember age seventeen more vividly than he could remember forty? What had happened? What had changed? Nothing, he decided, nothing had changed. At seventeen he had been young and alive, perhaps even hopeful; at forty he had been empty, hollow, and closer to death than a man of that age should ever rightly be.

Cal looked at his eyes, at the dark void that stared back. He looked at the black, lustrous hair that fell in shiny waves over his forehead. The tiniest hints of gray began at his temples, whisked back and away, signs of maturity, not deterioration. He looked at the straight line of his nose and the hard, masculine shape of his chin. There was a creeping pallor to his skin – not enough sunlight, too much time spent indoors, in the hospital. Despite his age he looked young, well, except of course for the thick bandages strapped around his head. He reached up and carefully unwound the bandages from his jaw. For a moment, just before the last wrap fell away, he stopped. Fear gripped him, a terror that held his heart and his hands fast. What if he was hideous? What if the one thing that was absolutely incontrovertible in his life—his looks—had been destroyed?

And so what? Cal thought, chuckling, feeling reckless and crazed. He let the bandages fall away, knowing that there was nothing he could do. Either he was a hideous monster or he wasn't, there would be no in between. His fears were unnecessary; the bullet had traveled through his cheek and exited out the back of his head through the ear canal, just as the doctor had said. Other than the sharp soreness in the roof of his mouth, there was no trace of that bleak evening on the front of his face. Cal turned his head, pulling his right ear forward slightly. Ah, so there was the mark. His hair had been shaved away a little and a pale pink line of stitches ran just below and behind his ear, like the gentle curve of a C.

He was forty-seven years old, not decrepit and not young but painfully alive.

With one last glance at his mouth and the concealed wound within, he turned away from the mirror and went to bed. He poured himself a few fingers of Scotch and tossed it back, wincing as the liquor burned him all the way down. The roof of his mouth stung, still tender, but Cal ignored it, swinging his legs into the bed and lying flat on his back. He reached up and pressed carefully on the line of stitches near his ear; it hurt but the spasm of pain was welcome. It reminded him that even if his brain and heart were exhausted beyond reason, his body would go on without him, soldiering forward whether he liked it or not. He placed his palm over his chest, absorbing the rhythmic, methodical punching of his heartbeat. There were two Cals, he thought, the physical one that walked and talked and breathed and fucked and the other Cal, the quiet, resigned ghost living inside the blood and flesh of the other. Once, that invisible spirit-like Cal had clamored to get out, scratching and kicking and biting, desperate to be the greater of the two. He tried to pinpoint when exactly that struggle had stopped.

The answer came with a wave of nausea. Rose. That struggle for a life led beyond the physical had died with Rose. Her corpse was beneath the waves somewhere, part of the water, dissolved into a million dying particles. Cal wondered if she was still there, still rotting at the bottom of the sea, her bones turning to sand. Breathing became difficult as he recalled that terrible night on the Titanic, the night he had, once and for all, felt the fight go out of him. He had spat at her, screamed, even fired a gun at his beloved, and all of it was part of that last gasp for something more than cold, white smiles and slick, breezy gestures. That night the physical Cal, the hard-bodied, sneering, calculatingly handsome Cal had won. And it was that Cal that now grumbled and tossed and turned, unhappy, unsatisfied with the food at supper and the quality of the Scotch and the tension in his body born of too long a spell without sex.

But it was the quiet, invisible Cal that finally became dragged down into sleep, into the sticky net of dreams. Before unconsciousness he hoped tentatively for no dreams at all but he knew, sensed, that dark, vicious things lingered on the edge of his brain, waiting for sleep to take him, waiting until he was weak and defenseless and utterly deserving of dread.


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning Cal woke at seven thirty. He had neglected to close the curtains the night before and the sun poured in through the windows, striking the glass with a prism of pale colors. Spring - insistent, excitable - had brought out the morning glories on the trellises just outside the windows. Cal looked at them for a long time, watching their bright purple heads bobbing in the mild, early-morning wind. Finally he slid out of bed, feeling a little ill and clammy with sweat. He called for a bath, relieved that Miriam wasn't hovering outside the door when he did.

Philip, their butler's son, arrived at the door with coffee and an armful of fluffy towels. Cal sat in the window seat in his shorts drinking the strong, black coffee. He didn't care if it made Philip uncomfortable; he wanted to feel the sunshine on his skin. The young man didn't seem to notice Cal's unseemly behavior, and instead went about preparing the bath. He was a fresh-faced boy, still pink in the cheeks, with ivory Irish skin and a wild crop of reddish brown curls. Thin and gangled, he was nonetheless efficient. Cal didn't recognize Philip at first; the boy was replacing an older servant that had drawn Cal's bath and brought him his breakfast for years.

"Where's Williams?" Cal asked casually, sipping his coffee.

"Williams is ill, Mr. Hockley, sir," Philip replied quickly, his face even redder from the steam of the bath. "Might just be the change in weather, but he's been abed for the last week, sir."

Cal nodded, watching the young man fuss over the temperature of the bath. Clearly, someone had given Philip explicit instructions on how Mr. Hockley preferred his water. The coffee was good too, accompanied on the saucer with a soft biscuit smothered in marmalade. The jam had almost made a mush of the biscuit and Cal chewed it easily. It was his first bite of harder food in many days and he gladly licked the sweet crumbs from his fingertips.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Philip froze, his right hand clutching a bar of soap. He was squeezing it so hard now that Cal was certain it would fly out of his hand and land in the bathwater. Perhaps the servants had been told Cal could not or would not use his voice. It was raw, certainly, but Cal could use it. The young man straightened up, slowly turning to face Cal with a pained expression.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"You know, are you courting anyone? A girl?"

"Sir… I…"

Cal waved his hesitation away, impatient, irritated. "Forget I asked," he muttered, finishing his coffee. The young servant carefully set down the soap on the edge of the tub and glanced around, nervous now that his services were no longer needed. He approached Cal slowly, as if the man might lunge at him and bite, and took the saucer and coffee cup with trembling hands. Philip turned to go, but stopped midway across the room. He looked at Cal over his shoulder, his big brown eyes flicking bashfully from his employer to the floor.

"There's a girl who brings the firewood round every other day," Philip murmured, his cheeks deeply flushed. Cal had the distinct impression that Philip was indulging him, but he didn't mind. "Her name's Daisy, sir, Daisy Langford."

"I see," Cal replied, still reclined on the window seat. "Thank you, Philip. That will be all."

"Sir."

Philip bowed out of the room, the door shutting softly behind him. Cal grinned, standing and shucking his shorts and lowering himself into the bath with a relieved sigh. The water was hot, scalding, and Philip had left a bar of his favorite vanilla soap. The boy couldn't be older than fifteen and Daisy was probably his first love. He tried to picture the young girl – she was probably tall, slender, with big handfuls of coiling blonde hair that she would keep tied back with a pink ribbon. Perhaps she had freckles sprinkled across her pert, upturned nose. Cal tried to remember that age, the single-minded, breathless sprint of adolescence. He had been shy at boarding school, awkwardly tall for his age, uncertain around girls. It wasn't until his final two years of school that he learned to socialize with women, learned to flatter them and stand up tall so they would take notice. With the help of swimming and polo and boxing he had grown into his height, filling out in the shoulders, becoming popular among his peers and among girls.

Cal frowned. It must have been around seventeen or eighteen when he learned to use his body, his looks, as a weapon. At fifteen he had been sweet and shy and by eighteen he was a menace; that sneering confidence had never gone away. How strange, that one could change horribly and irrevocably in just a few short years. Unfortunately, there was no way to pinpoint the moment at which he had changed. Perhaps knowing the root of his dark bitterness would make it easier to tear it out, like a poisonous weed growing secretly in a tangled wood. Cal almost wished he could warn Philip, but for propriety's sake he would have to let the boy find out for himself.

After he had finished his bath and scoured his skin until it was raw, he dried off and discovered that Philip had left behind a fresh set of clothes. Cal dressed in the flannel trousers, crisp white cotton shirt and a lightweight beige vest. He had no intention of going out and left his suit coat lying on the bed.

The house was already bustling with activity. Downstairs, Jeffrey directed the servants as they aired out the house, changing over the curtains and wardrobes for spring. All of the doors in the house had been flung open, a cool wind streaming unimpeded through the halls and rooms. The smell of wet grass rushed in through the windows and doors, filling the house with a fresh, fragrant energy. Outside, a couple of old women in crisp aprons beat the rugs with wicker canes while their younger counterparts hung up the laundry to dry. Cal wove in and out of their way almost unseen. Did this happen every year? He couldn't remember it. The whole house felt lighter, refreshed, as if the grime and cold of winter was being beat away, back into memories.

"Good morning, sir," Jeffrey greeted him. The butler was busy rearranging the vases of flowers in the anteroom.

"Jeffrey," Cal said, testing his hoarse voice again, "You can have those thrown away."

"Yes, sir," Jeffrey replied. At once, a young boy appeared and began gathering up the flowers in his slender arms. "And the cards, sir?"

"Get rid of them."

Jeffrey nodded, indicating to the boy to take the cards as well.

"Is Mrs. Hockley having breakfast?" Cal asked, watching as the flowers and cards were carried away, probably to be tossed away and the vases repurposed or stolen by the servants. He didn't care. He never wanted to see the damned things again.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Jeffrey said with a little hesitation, "She's gone out."

"Out?" Cal asked. "Out where?"

"I believe she went to call on Mrs. Rutherford."

Cal nodded with a grim smile. Mrs. Rutherford was, in fact, _Mr_. Rutherford, a young banker with a good build but one very unfortunate lazy eye. He was one of Miriam's usual flings. Cal was only momentarily surprised by Miriam's brazenness; he had been back less than a day and already she was seeking solace in the arms of one of her many lovers. Jeffrey knew this too, thus the hesitation.

"I'll be in the study," Cal said, striding away.

The servants airing out the study scuttled out of Cal's way as he entered, their eyes glued to the ground as they shut the door and disappeared silently down the hall. This was Cal's favorite room in the house, a quiet, still place where he could be alone to think. He spent most of his mornings and evenings there, conducting business or reading the paper or simply sitting in thoughtful silence. The walls were almost entirely obscured by bookshelves, shelves cluttered with almanacs, encyclopedias and books he had collected in college and over the years as gifts from coworkers and acquaintances. He walked to the nearest shelf, the rich mahogany of the wood had recently been polished and it shone red and gold in the spring sunlight. Cal ran his fingers over the stiff bindings of the books, letting his fingernails catch on the little ridges of their spines. He couldn't recall the last time he had read a book for pleasure; his time was too valuable, his business too imperiled.

Nothing on his desk had been disturbed. His last will and testament was kept in the safe upstairs in the bedroom and nobody had bothered to look through his things in this room. Cal had half-expected to see indications of panic, traces of concern. Perhaps he had thought Miriam would riffle through his possessions in some attempt to capture the man she had lost. But she hadn't lost him, not really, or if she had it had happened years and years ago.

Cal sat at his desk tapping a pen against his chin. He hadn't bothered to put the bandages back on. Idly, he realized he hadn't shaved. That was alright, he could do it later if he wanted. He swiveled around in his chair, drawn to the chatter of birds outside the window. Vines were beginning to climb up and over the glass, peeking their tapered green noses into the study. There was a knock at the door before Jeffrey entered, bringing with him a silver tray laden with breakfast food.

"Thank you, Jeffrey," Cal said deliberately, reaching for a steaming English muffin.

"Of course, sir, you're welcome. Your father called earlier. He said to expect him before noon," Jeffrey replied.

"Alright. Send him in when he arrives."

"Sir."

Cal turned to his breakfast, a little miffed that his usual eggs and toast had been replaced with a bowl of porridge. Miriam, he thought, poking her nose into his business. What else had she told the servants to do? How else was he to be coddled?

Cal ate the porridge with a grimace, too put out to call for more brown sugar. He drank his second cup of coffee sullenly, staring out the window and watching the young girls pin bed skirts to a line. They were beautiful, those girls. Absentmindedly, he entertained the idea of seducing one of them. They wouldn't refuse him. After all, he was their employer. But there was something horrible about the thought, something disgusting and shocking. Cal felt his invisible self, the quiet, sad self rise up in indignation. Those young women were naïve, spotlessly innocent and they were only to be appreciated from afar. He thought of Rose without meaning to. She had come to him a virgin but she wasn't sweet and simple like these laundry girls. Rose had been spoiled, indulged and it had led to her undoing. Or perhaps that was wrong, he thought with a frown, perhaps that wild, reckless streak lived in each and every girl and only escaped to run amuck in some.

A sharp bang on the door roused Cal from his idle thoughts. His father stormed in, pushing Jeffrey aside before the butler could come in to announce him.

"He damn well knows who I am," Nathan grunted, slamming the door in Jeffrey's face.

Cal turned in his chair to look at his father. He didn't stand. He sipped his coffee and waited for Nathan to begin his lecture. There was nothing new about his father's foul mood, it was undoubtedly the norm.

"Enjoying yourself?" Nathan wheezed, lumbering over to the desk. He dropped into the chair across from Cal and rearranged his bulky waistcoat. Cal nodded by way of answer, eyeing his father over the glossy white rim of the coffee cup.

"Well snap out of it," Nathan said, running his hand over his mustache, "Because if you think for one minute, one second, that I'm going to clean up this mess of yours then you're a bigger fool than I thought."

"I never thought that," Cal said mildly.

"Oh, so you _can_ speak? What a shame. I was hoping to tell you this without having to argue," Nathan said, shaking his big, ruddy head from side to side. "You've put us in a damn spot, Cal, a real tight one. Do you know what it looks like when the owner of a company tries to off himself? Well? Do you? It looks bad, Cal, very, very bad. We're losing our credibility, bleeding out and it's your job to staunch the wound."

Cal waited, knowing his father wasn't done. He didn't care what Nathan wanted to propose; Cal would probably do it, or at least give the impression that he was along for the ride.

"Roger Sutton's wife is in town this week," Nathan pressed on, "And I've told her she can stay here."

"Sutton?" Cal repeated. "I've heard of him."

"Have you? Well I should hope so. He's only one of the richest ninnies in England," Nathan said, laughing darkly. "The man practically owns half of London and lucky for us, my boy, his old man owes me a favor. I gave him a deal on girders years back when they were first getting their feet wet."

"What does Sutton's wife have to do with any of this?" Cal asked, finishing his coffee.

"She's his _charge d'affaires_. You didn't know? Sutton's in a wheelchair, has been for years. Poor sot fell from his horse just a few months before his wedding. Hasn't seemed to slow him down, he's been accumulating property all over New York, California, even North Africa. While we stand around pissing ourselves and losing money, Sutton's throwing up developments as fast as he can. He's a shark, that one, and sharp as steel," Nathan explained. He pulled a cigar from his coat and lit it with a match, sighing into his first exhalation. "His wife does all their negotiations. It's too much of a bother for him to travel with the chair."

"So what's the scheme?" Cal asked wearily. He was already exhausted by his father's plotting.

"While she's in town I want all of her attention on Hockley Steel. We'll offer her a good price, but more than that, we'll make nice and show her a good time. Business isn't about the best man winning, Cal, you know that. It's about connections, relationships," Nathan said, gesturing broadly with his cigar, "And we need Mrs. Sutton to see us as the only option. She and Miriam will get along swimmingly; they'll be dear friends in no time. She'll write her husband, tell him what a lovely visit she's had and the next thing you know we'll be shipping twice the volume, triple."

"That's it?" Cal asked after a pause, suspicious. "You just want us to host her?"

"Host, yes. Charm her, Cal, throw her parties, show her what nice, quality people we are."

Cal couldn't help but snort in response. "Parties? Father, if you hadn't noticed we're in the middle of a depression."

"No," Nathan barked, his eyes narrowing as he nearly lunged across the desk. His face flamed, his upper lip snarling like a dog's. "I hadn't noticed, Caledon, and nor should you. Oh I noticed that we're losing money alright, and that we're just about belly-up, but nobody wants to hear about it. Nobody wants to be reminded of their own misery. Understand? Nobody. So you smile and put on a nice tuxedo and make Mrs. Sutton forget all about a depression or a recession or any of those pathetic, lower-class concerns. Do you understand me? This is _your_ mess, son and you're going to sort it out."

Nathan stood, flustered, and stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. Cal glared up at him, watching the smoke coiling from the end of the cigar.

"What is she like, Mrs. Sutton?"

"British, upper crust, a real aristocrat, a snob born and bred – you know the type. Indulge her, smile at her, let her do as she pleases, but for heaven's sake don't take her seriously."

"And when does she arrive?"

"Wednesday, and she'll stay for a week if all goes well," Nathan said. He turned and stalked to the door, preparing to let himself out. Cal stayed in his chair. "I expect you to throw a soiree for her arrival that night – champagne, music, guests, food, all of it. The sooner we get the ball rolling the better."

Nathan left without another word. Cal leaned back hard in his chair, exhausted. The last thing he wanted was to spend the next week entertaining a horrible British shrew. Miriam would be no help at all; she was already throwing herself back into her dizzying lifestyle of affairs and secrets, and unless he could rouse her sympathy she would be furious at the idea of having a stranger tag along for a week. Cal would just have to convince her it was for the best, that if she wanted to go on with her carefree lifestyle she would simply have to sacrifice.

Cal felt his breakfast tumble around in his stomach, making him grimace and regret drinking so much strong coffee. If only he had the energy to stand up to Nathan, to say what was swimming around in his head. He could care less if they were headed for destitution, not because he wanted to be poor and homeless, but because keeping themselves a float required far too much effort.

He glanced outside. The girls had returned to pin up more bed linens. They were smiling, laughing and chatting to each other as their lean, young arms reached up to secure the corners of the bed sheets. What did they think about? he wondered, and what did they see when they looked at their employer? What went through their minds as they caught sight of him staring through the window, his face sickly and pale, his eyes dark and empty?


	3. Chapter 3

Harper Sutton stared at the letter cradled in her palms, feeling the great whirring engines of the train jerk and sputter. She glanced out the foggy window. A wet haze rolled over the tracks, a greeting care of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers. In the distance Pittsburgh reared up, gray and unexpectedly small, hedged in on every side by waterways. It seemed to crouch on its little triangle of an island, hunched over the land possessively.

Her bones ached from the journey. Already she missed the misty, dirty comfort and familiarity of London. She looked back down at the letter.

_My dreams are full of you my darling. It's lonely here with you, as it always is, and I feel lost, aimless. Without you the house is just a shell – walls and floors and ceilings and empty corridors with no laughter and no light. You are my light._

Harper felt an urge to fold up the letter and tuck it back into her suitcase. Instead, she let it lay flat on top of her hands, the cramped handwriting flowing across the page in even, black rows. When she arrived at the Hockley's she would need to write back to her husband, let him know the trip had gone without a hitch, that she was safe and well and looking forward to returning to London. And as she wrote the letter she would need to wrack her brain for appropriate sentimentalities and try to recall the secret language of their marriage.

_ I would bribe every porter, sailor, engineer and policemen from here to New York to your destination if it meant getting you there and back safely. Fate terrifies me. You know I never put much stock in religion, but I become a fiercely devout man when you are away. I find myself praying constantly, absentmindedly and still I worry, as if not even the promises of God or the angels were enough._

Harper smiled, moved by her husband's agonizingly sweet devotion. So many of her friends and family members had married without knowing love or affection; Roger adored her, worshipped her, but sometimes it all felt a little forced, as if he loved an idea of Harper Sutton and not the woman as she was. Sometimes Harper was sure that was her own fault. Roger loved her, yes, but did he know her? These letters, these meandering, sodden letters – did he really believe she wanted this?

_Remember our agreement. Write as soon as there are any developments of note. I love you, darling. I love you and I miss you every moment._

And yet he was so kind, so determined in his love for her… she couldn't help but love him back. A person would have to be made of stone and ice to refuse tenderness to someone like Roger. He deserved everything, she thought with a frown, and he deserved so much more. She slid the letter into her attaché and looked at the piece of paper that had been placed immediately next to it in the envelope. She scanned down the page, her eyes lingering over words like suicidal, unstable, childless, failing, _cuckold_. Her stomach turned. This part of things always made her feel slightly ill. There was nothing sunny or sentimental about this part of the letter. Even Roger's handwriting looked more efficient and mannered. And if the information here was correct then Harper had her work cut out for her.

The train shuddered to a stop. Harper stuffed the piece of paper away quickly, startled. She collected her carry-on bag and adjusted her rose pink cloche hat. The porter arrived, taking her ticket and helping her down from the train. The station was noisy, busy, families calling to each other, lovers reuniting. This was the sort of sight that greeted her all of the time and she had become accustomed to that alien feeling of knowing there would be no familiar face in the crowd. She watched a young woman run into the arms of a man in a gray flannel suit. He picked her up and they spun, kissing and laughing as she landed back on the ground.

"Miss?"

Harper whirled, disoriented, and then smiled at the middle aged man in a black driving uniform. He wore a dark cap and had a neatly trimmed beard. Her bags appeared, hauled off the train by a strong young man.

"Mrs. Sutton?" the driver asked, clearing his throat. It was difficult to hear him over the huffing and whistling of the trains and the chattering crowd.

"Yes," she said, "You're with the Hockleys?"

The driver nodded, breaking out into a relieved smile. He took up her bags and she followed him through the station and out into the chilly morning fog. So far so good, she thought, at least they had the decency to send a car. The driver led her to the curb where dozens of taxis and shiny black cars waited, exhaust rumbling into the atmosphere. Harper had seen nicer automobiles in her time, but the Hockley's Bentley was by no means cheap. She ducked into the back seat, keeping her attaché close to her side.

As they pulled out away from the curb and joined the flow of car traffic leaving the station, Harper took the powder compact from her attaché and opened it, dusting her nose with a fine, fragrant powder. The journey had left her feeling greasy and sore, jostled by boat, by train and now by car. She was tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down. Harper recalled the telegram that had been waiting for her at the boat terminal. The Hockleys had organized a fete for the evening, just a little gathering to welcome her to Pittsburgh. What a nightmare. She hoped that at the very least she would be allowed to nap in the hours leading up to the party.

_Strike one_, she thought, lighting up a cigarette.

Harper watched the rivers and the city come into view, a panorama in silvers, blues and grays. Compared to Paris or Cairo or New York City, Pittsburgh was hardly more than an industrial pimple. Still, she thought, exhaling a stream of smoke thoughtfully, it did have a gritty kind of charm, a lot like London in that way.

"Lovely view, eh Mrs. Sutton?" the driver called.

"Certainly," she lied, taking another drag on her cigarette.

"The Venice of America," he added proudly, "We even got more bridges than they do!"

"Indeed?"

They drove over just such a bridge and Harper grinned, deciding it wouldn't be sporting to crush the driver's spirit by pointing out that what Venice lacked in bridges it made up for in superior charm, beauty, history and elegance. Clearly the man was proud of his dirty eyesore of a city. The heart of Pittsburgh unfolded in front of them, the University and the skeletal Cathedral of Learning stabbing up through the sea of brownstones and warehouses.

The driver steered them down a shaded, gated neighborhood. Large, sprawling manor houses appeared, set back from the road and hidden behind tall, stone fences and hedgerows. The Hockley's house was a squat, gothic nightmare with turrets and balconies and a lavish front garden that was beginning to burst with hyacinths and daisies. Harper had to admit that the gardens were nice, by far the most attractive feature of the house. The car turned up the drive, the gray stone façade of the house looming up over them like the mouth of some great and terrible cave. She half-expected a flurry of bats to rain down from the arched alcove over the door.

"Here we are, Mrs. Sutton."

Harper opened the door without waiting for the driver, tipping back her head to take in the full height and size of the house. A butler emerged from the front doors.

"Welcome, Mrs. Sutton," the butler said, "I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"It was," Harper replied, "Thank you."

"My name is Jeffrey, ma'am. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything you might require."

Harper followed him inside, liking the man at once. He had a gentle face, creased with age and hardship but still open and friendly. If the Hockleys treated him badly there was no trace of it on his countenance. His voice was pleasing too, deep and resonant like a grandfather's ought to be.

Inside, Hockley manor was warm and fragrant with freshly-cut lilies in tall, crystal clear vases. The floors were immaculately clean, the wood shining as Harper stepped over the threshold and the mid-morning sun followed for the briefest of flashes. There was no laughter from children, no phonograph emitting distant music. Not a happy home, necessarily, but a pretty one. A miniature chandelier hung in the front hall, illuminating a wide, round room with a grand staircase leading up to the second floor and a balcony along the top. Harper could imagine many a dramatic entrance being made down those steps. As if on cue, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She swept down toward Harper, a long, crepe silk dress trailing behind her. She was dressed in dark blue, a color that did nothing for her pasty complexion.

"Mrs. Sutton!" the woman exclaimed, opening her arms wide in welcome.

"Mrs. Hockley," Harper said pleasantly, pulling off her cloche hat and tucking it under her arm, "What an immense pleasure!"

"Oh aren't you a dear," Mrs. Hockley said, beaming. She had thin lips and a harsh, unnatural smile but her energy seemed genuine enough, if not a little theatrical. Mrs. Hockley had probably been a beautiful woman at one point, but age and stress and too much make up had robbed her of any fresh beauty that might've remained into middle age. After all the stories Harper had heard of Caledon Hockley's good looks, she was surprised to find Miriam Hockley was far beyond her expiration date. Her hair was long, dark and waved but out of fashion, too long and heavy for her thin frame.

Mrs. Hockley took Harper by the hand, forcing her to turn around.

"I just love your hair, dear! And what an _adorable_ coat," Mrs. Hockley said, cooing over her turquoise, fur-trimmed Lanvin. "Where on earth did you get it? I absolutely must have one for myself."

"Harrods," Harper replied, a little overwhelmed by such an effusion of praise. Mrs. Hockley turned her again, studying Harper's face closely.

"Jeffrey! Jeffrey look, look! Why she's the spitting image of Leila Hyams! Yes! _The Thirteenth Chair _was one of my all-time favorite films," Mrs. Hockley said, blabbering on and on. It all felt like a rather complicated performance, planned down to the moment. "A triumph! I think I must have gone three times!" Harper forced a smile. Jeffrey looked her over and nodded.

"She does indeed bear a striking resemblance to Miss Hyams."

"You're both very kind," Harper said, her face growing warm.

"You're tired," Mrs. Hockley observed, letting go of her hand. "You poor thing, you're absolutely exhausted and here I am going on and on! Jeffrey will take your things to the guest room. It's just this way, let me show you. Would you care for tea? Warm milk?"

"I wouldn't say no to a brandy," Harper said. She noted the way Mrs. Hockley flinched but ordered one for her anyway.

Harper followed them up the carpeted stairs, her feet dragging a little from weariness. Mrs. Hockley continued blathering about _The Thirteenth Chair_, a film Harper had never heard of or seen. She had no idea who this Leila Hyams person was but she hoped the comparison was a flattering one. Harper didn't have much time for the cinema; her husband's business affairs kept her traveling most of the year and she preferred to relax with a swim or a book and a glass of wine in the garden. The house was cozier and more inviting upstairs, with walls painted in rich jewel tones and artwork hanging every few feet. There were many doors, all of them shut tight. Mrs. Hockley pointed out the bathrooms as they went by and Harper hoped she would be able to find her way back.

"You'll have to excuse Mr. Hockley," she said, stopping outside of a door with ornate dried flower garland hanging on it. "He's so terribly busy these days. He was sorry he couldn't be here to welcome you, he said so himself, but I'm sure you'll have time to speak tonight at the party."

"Of course," Harper said, her eyelids drooping as sleep threatened with greater persistence, "It's no trouble at all."

"Jeffrey, hurry with that brandy, will you?"

"You're very kind," Harper said again, letting Mrs. Hockley manhandle her into the guestroom. It was elegantly sparse, housing a big four post bed with a silver velvet canopy and a tall bay window. The bed looked inviting but Harper was sleepy enough to simply collapse on the floor if she had to.

Jeffrey dodged into the room, laying out her suitcases at the foot of the bed. He nipped down the hallway and returned almost immediately with a tumbler and a generous portion of brandy.

"Thank you so much," Harper said, meaning it. Jeffrey smiled pleasantly and bowed out of the room, adding, "If you need anything, ma'am, simply ring the bell. A maid will be sent up at five o'clock to help you dress and the guests will begin arriving at seven."

"Do rest," Mrs. Hockley crowed as Jeffrey tried to shut the door, "A pleasure to have you with us!"

Harper hardly had the energy to remove her coat and frock before falling into bed. She made sure the curtains were shut tight to keep out the light that was growing stronger as afternoon arrived. Five hours should be more than enough time to rest up and restore her joie de vivre. Harper opened her attaché and took out the slim, tattered book inside. She took it with her to the bed, indulging in a long, grateful swig of the brandy as she settled in to read and let her mind unwind before her nap.

Roger's letter tumbled out of the book and Harper nearly dropped the tumbler in surprise. She hadn't meant to tuck his letter into the book and seeing it there, touching the pages of the novel almost made her sick. Those two things didn't belong and she had no idea why her reaction was so decidedly violent. She edged the letter away from the book and onto the floor, not caring if it spent the rest of the day gathering dust. Harper opened the book, trying to restore her pulse to a normal rate as she found her place. She read, the brandy working its languid, methodical magic, her sleepiness mingling gently with her gradual intoxication. The words on the page seemed to float up to her, alive, shimmering.

_The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clearing, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in the abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace._

Harper fell asleep with the sentences rolling in her head, undulating through her brain like one warm, unbroken wave. At first she dreamt of water, of having her head covered by it. She didn't panic from the loss of oxygen or the thought that she might die and never see Roger again, or the crushing blackness of the bottomless ocean. And when that vision resolved itself she dreamed of nothing at all, floating in blackness, relieved at that moment to be lost to the world.


	4. Chapter 4

Cal had always lived by a staunch adherence to excess; excessive gambling, excessive drinking, excessive eating and excessive horseback riding, polo and boxing to counteract the eating and drinking. He never grew out of his mania for looking good. There was nobody in particular he wanted to impress, but he liked the idea that at any moment he could embark on a sweeping affair.

Jeffrey had arranged for a new tuxedo, promising God knows what to the tailor to have it ready in mere days for the party. Cal's old tuxedo had been looking dowdy and worn, too long in the back and tight through the arms. The Hockley's tailor had truly outdone himself. The new suit fit perfectly, lean and fitted through the waist, with wider, more fashionable lapels and a good length. The pants fell just centimeters above his shoes. Cal inspected himself in the full-length mirror, glad to have the bedroom to himself. Miriam would dress somewhere else, one of the guest rooms probably, well away from him. They never dressed together; Miriam was frantic about only being seen at her absolute best. Philip was there to help, brushing the shoulders and back of Cal's tuxedo with a stiff horsehair comb. Cal finished tying his cream bowtie and Philip handed him a silk pocket square and a blood red gerbera daisy for his lapel.

Magnificent, he thought, what a sip of whiskey and a sharp tuxedo could do to a man. He was almost unrecognizable, no longer a victim, an invalid, but a man still well in the glory of his best years. For men like him there was no end to the best years. They endured until death.

Cal sipped a Scotch, turning this way and that, making sure every detail, every cufflink, hair and seam was as it should be. He ran the heel of his free hand along the side of his slickly styled hair, tamping it down into place. The soreness in his mouth had dissipated, and besides the scar behind his ear there was no reminder of the "accident." He could chew and swallow solid food and the hair near his scar had begun growing back. Cal ran his tongue over the spot in his mouth where he knew the bullet had struck. _Everything heals_, he thought, _time obliterates it all_. Weary, he swirled the Scotch in his tumbler, already dreading the evening ahead. He had no idea why he was going along with his father's ridiculous scheme. If this Mrs. Sutton was really so savvy and worldly, she would see through their desperate plan at once.

_ You have nothing else to do. That's why._

Cal tried to force down that bitter voice in his head, but it was true. He was almost fifty years old with a crumbling business and a wife he didn't love; his father's machinations were, at the very least, a distraction. He eyed Philip, who hovered behind him in the mirror's reflection. A sudden fancy made Cal feel reckless, bold.

"What is she like?"

"Pardon me, sir?" Philip didn't break his pace, brushing Cal's sleeves with quick, practiced gestures.

"Your girl, Daisy, what is she like?"

Philip paused, swallowing with some difficulty as his bright, round eyes met Cal's in the mirror. Cal quirked his lips, giving a hint of a smile, letting the boy know he meant no mischief.

"Pretty as a doe, sir. Her name fits her to a tee," Philip replied at last. His eyes went dreamy, gooey and Cal envied the boy his childish glee. It had been many long years since Cal had thought of a woman and watched his face do that thing, that unstoppable, undignified melting thing. Perhaps it had really only happened once, decades ago when he first beheld a fiery young redhead with eyes like sun-struck emeralds. At that first glance his breath had caught and stuck and nearly choked him.

"And what else?" Cal asked, draining his Scotch.

"She can sing like a bird and she's a bit shy, but smart, sir, I believe she's very smart."

"Her hair?"

"Like gold, sir, ringlets of spun gold."

"Be careful with her," Cal advised quietly, looking into the bottom of his empty glass, "Women are never fragile until you break them."

Nervously, wordlessly, Philip withdrew. Downstairs the musicians had begun warming up, the sounds of their jazz instruments floating through the halls and seeping into his bedroom. Miriam had protested but Cal's opinion, as always, prevailed; jazz was all the rage and he wouldn't have them looking old-fashioned and out of touch. He could already sense a dark mood coming on; he could readily picture the fake, plastic smiles of his guests as they tried to avoid talking about his brush with death. There wasn't enough Scotch in the world, not for these occasions. It would be awkward and agonizing, he knew that, but luckily there was only one person he had to impress. Cal was confident that he could at least do that much, that he hadn't become entirely obsolete.

Then and there Cal promised himself that if he could just keep his temper long enough to dazzle Mrs. Sutton he would try in earnest to be happier, to forget the despair lingering just out of sight, the despair that loomed and threatened and smiled at his expense.

An hour later, the party in full-swing, Cal floated among his guests and their conversations, the confident, physical Cal in smooth control. It worried him that sliding into this role again was as easy as climbing into a bath; there was almost no effort involved, just the long-studied gestures of a man who knows his due and demands nothing less. Miriam was in rare form, temporarily lifting her moratorium on alcohol consumption to drink early and enthusiastically; Cal could guess that she was drunk even before the first guests arrived. The only natural conclusion was that Miriam was either intimidated by or already tired of Mrs. Sutton. Otherwise, Miriam would have continued supporting Prohibition, a stance that irritated Cal almost as much as it amused him.

In his house there was no such thing as Prohibition. Certainly, the shipments of Scotch and brandy and wine were labeled to confuse any prying eyes, but Cal believed that without alcohol the entire upper class would unravel. Sometimes a good strong drink was a rich man's only sympathetic companion as well as the only thing keeping him from wringing his wife's neck.

Cal could hear Miriam in conversation across the room; there was a direct correlation between the shrillness of her laughter and the amount of alcohol she had consumed. If the trend continued, she would be shattering the glass in the windows by nine o'clock. Cal spotted Dean Harker chatting up a pretty redhead near the musicians and Cal quickly went to join them. The music, which was brassy and fast and contagious, would be just loud enough to drown out Miriam's shrieking giggles. Dean Harker grinned as Cal approached, greeting him with a stiff, masculine handshake. Dean and Cal had roomed together at Harvard and remained friends ever since; Harker was one of the few businessmen Cal could rightly call a friend. Dean was of average height, unremarkable looking except for his wide, energetic smile and white-blonde hair.

"Good to see you, Hockley," Dean said. Beneath the polite greeting, Cal detected a real genuine relief. Dean had inevitably heard of the "accident" and it gave Cal a pang to think his friend had suffered or grieved.

"This is Lila," Dean said, motioning to the tall redhead. Cal didn't need a last name and she and Dean were too tipsy to bother giving it. Cal had never seen her before; she was probably someone's wife and soon to be Dean's latest fling. The woman was in her mid-thirties, pretty enough but with an odd, square face that gave the impression she was perpetually scowling. Her dress matched her hair, bright scarlet and heavily beaded. Cal took Lila's hand and kissed it, watching as a faint, girlish blush settled over her cheeks. He hadn't lost his touch, not even a little.

"Damn you, Hockley," Dean said with a booming laugh, "Always stealing my thunder."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Cal said, hating the way the words oozed out without his even thinking, "I'm taken, you know that. My heart belongs to my wife."

Cleverly, nobody mentioned Dean's wife Angelica, who was undoubtedly somewhere in the room eyeing her own new piece of pretty flesh. Dean cleared his throat to cover the silence left by Cal's bald-faced lie. "And where is the lovely Miriam?"

"Last I saw her she was trying to convince Senator Mortmain to dance."

"Well I wish her all the luck in the world – poor Mortmain is about as graceful as a steam locomotive."

"Dean!" the woman – Lila – exclaimed, swatting Dean flirtatiously on the chest with her fan.

"Sorry my dear, but it's true."

"Dean," Cal said, taking his friend by the elbow, "I wonder if we couldn't have a word."

"Of course," Dean replied, giving Lila a regretful frown, "I'll find you in a moment. Why don't you find us some punch?"

Lila graciously took her dismissal with a smile, slinking away with her necklace beads clinking like a toy orchestra. Dean watched her go, fascinated, and winked when she tossed a glance over her slim shoulder. Cal studied his friend, slightly nauseated by Dean's open displays of affection. Lila had been wearing a wedding band, Dean wore a wedding band and somewhere in the room Angelica wore the matching ring. And yet there they stood, milling in a tornado of drunken blue bloods with nothing but adultery and self-gratification on the mind. The salon seemed to swell with so many people laughing and chatting and dancing, the heat of their bodies almost unbearable. Ironically enough, the band had just begun their rendition of "Ain't Misbehavin.'"

"What is it, old boy?" Dean asked, noticing Cal's pained expression.

"What do you know of Roger Sutton?"

"Slow down, Cal, slow down. I haven't seen you in weeks and then Angelica bursts into my study screaming about you being dead, getting shot," Dean said, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper, "What in the world has gotten into you?"

_ I'm through with flirtin' it's just you that I've been thinkin' of…_

"Do you want an apology?" Cal asked, his face tightening.

"No, but an explanation wouldn't hurt."

Cal snatched a champagne flute from a passing servant, swigging from it as Dean shoved him away from the musicians and toward a dark corner. "There's no explanation," Cal said, touching his bow tie nervously, "Not one that would satisfy you anyway."

"I see," Dean replied, a sigh deflating his whole body, "So I shouldn't worry about you?"

"No," Cal said, "You shouldn't. Thank you for your concern, Dean, but as you can see I'm quite alright."

_ I don't stay out late, nowhere to go…_

"Roger Sutton, eh?" Dean said, pulling an engraved silver cigarette case from inside his tuxedo jacket. He tamped the end with his usual disheveled style. Dean offered Cal one and together they smoked and gazed out at the sea of partygoers. Dean's wife was a notorious gossip; if anybody knew the ins and outs of someone as rich and interesting as Roger Sutton, it would be her. It followed that Angelica would have turned that gossip into dinner conversation. "What do you need to know?"

"Father wants us to hitch the business to his tailcoat. He seems to think Sutton can turn things around for us," Cal explained, sucking on the cigarette thoughtfully. Watching the guests mill was like watching a rainbow swirl into itself, all color and shine with the little black clouds of tuxedoed men shifting here and there. He felt the fringes of a headache beginning, welling just behind his eyes.

"Not a bad thought," Dean replied, shrugging, "But Sutton's in London, Cal, and I'm afraid you're not."

"Right you are, but _Mrs_. Sutton is joining us for the week."

"She is?" Roger asked, perking up at once.

"Why?" Cal asked, "You know her?"

"Not really. I met her last year, a New Year's ball." Already Cal could tell that Dean was searching the party for her.

"Miriam insists she looks like some actress, she was half-hysterical about it. Father is informative as always. He says she's very… British."

"Well she is British," Dean replied impatiently, "But not _that_ sort of British."

"Really?" Cal asked, intrigued, "You met her _once_? And may I ask why all of the sudden you look like a love-struck pup?"

Dean laughed, his pale eyes sparkling as he took a puff on his cigarette. The guests dancing broke apart for a brief moment as the band introduced the next tune. They were out of breath, flushed from the exertion and the drinks. "I take it you haven't met her then?" Dean asked.

"Not yet," Cal replied, "But I suppose that's about to change." His headache flared. "And  
what's Mr. Sutton like?"

"An amiable fellow, I met him at that same party. He's popular, generous, gives most of his money to London charities. Women flock to him, it's bizarre," Dean said, continuing his anxious search for Mrs. Sutton. He looked slightly panicked, as if Cal had told him an elaborate lie just to see him squirm. "The man's in a wheelchair but you'd think he was Rudolph Valentino. No less than five or six pretty girls following him around at all times, fawning over him, getting him things…"

"Bizarre?" Cal snorted. "What could be more attractive? A rich man you never have to sleep with? Sounds like every woman's dream come true."

"Goodness, Cal, be kind."

"Why? The man's rich. Who bothers to pity the rich?"

Dean shrugged, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt into a vase of flowers. "I'm sure there's more to him than that. After all, his wife _did_ marry him even after the accident."

"That means less than nothing," Cal replied, dropping the end of his cigarette into the bottom of his champagne flute. He deposited the flute on a passing tray of appetizers. Cal adjusted the coat of his tuxedo, preparing to wade into the crushing crowd of guests.

"Good luck," Dean said with an exasperated chuckle, "You're going to need it."

"Find me later," Cal replied, turning to go, "We'll have a nightcap on the terrace."

Cal pushed into the swirl of dancers and mingling acquaintances. He didn't recognize many of the people but most of them stared openly. They wanted a glimpse of the man unfortunate enough to embrace death and find himself turned away, spurned by eternity. With the drinks flowing, none of them tried even a little to conceal their morbid fascination. They searched his face for scars, wounds, indicators of the tragedy. Cal knew they would find nothing and that only seemed to fuel their curiosity. He heard Miriam's sharp laughter rise above the crowd and his headache spiked; he turned, dodging in the opposite direction. He spied a pair of open chairs near the hall leading to the east sitting room. Relieved, he nipped a tumbler of Scotch from a serving boy and collapsed into one of the overstuffed chairs. The noise of the party blurred, drifting away. Above him, a wrought iron sconce decorated with shells and mermaids burned brightly.

Sighing, Cal unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, too warm, and swirled the ice in his glass. In a moment he would need to find Mrs. Sutton once and for all or Nathan would seek him out first and give him an earful. Cal would need to get rid of his blinding headache before attempting to charm Mrs. Sutton; the wives of rich men were sometimes scarier than their husbands. For a moment, Cal allowed himself to imagine what might happen if he trusted the fate of Hockley Steel to Miriam; his canapés and Scotch nearly came right back up.

It was good to sit apart from the noise and flirting and empty platitudes and simply sit. He watched Philip trot by carrying a pair of women's shoes. Odd. Cal grimaced, knowing then that his headache wasn't going anywhere. He felt crushed, exhausted, surprised by how much effort this sort of thing demanded. It had seemed so easy at first but now, removed from the heart of it, he saw that he was being drained every minute the party continued. His chest ached, mimicking the pounding throb in his forehead. He was impatient for something, something he couldn't name to happen.

Then suddenly she was there, like an answer dreamed up in a moment of bottomless frustration. One second Cal was nose-deep in his whisky, grateful for the smoky burn on the back of his throat, and the next he was staring open-mouthed – at what, he couldn't say. She wasn't extraordinarily beautiful, not in the predictable, classic way, but his eyes were unmistakably drawn to her as if guided by an invisible, sure hand.

"Thank heaven," she said, her voice was deep, lustrous and gently accented. "I didn't think I'd ever find a quiet spot."  
Cal could appraise a woman as succinctly as a jeweler appraised a stone. She was petite, fit, with big, expressive features and a heart-shaped face. Her modern hemline fell just below the knee, her gauzy black silk dress brazenly showing her bare arms and a deep swath of her back. Her arms were sleek and muscular, as if she had a passion for horseback riding or lawn tennis. Her hair was strawberry blonde, cut severely short and waved with a sparkling dragonfly pin at the side. She wore little make up, just a bit of rouge on her round cheeks and a cupid's bow of deep plum lipstick. And she was young, unexpectedly young, beaming with the kind of radiance that naturally faded with age.

She was an astonishment. Cal felt slightly stunned, frozen to his chair. Perhaps the bullet had done more damage than he originally thought.

"Do you mind?" she asked quietly, her hands folded in front of her, clutching a small, elegant beaded purse, "If I join you?"

"Please," Cal said, remembering himself. "Please do." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Philip cleaning up a broken glass; Cal felt his hand tremble once, as if a single, warning tremor had raced over his body. And then he was composed and still and the cold, single-minded and physical Cal returned. He tossed back his head, reclining in the chair.

"Enjoying the party?" Cal asked, his eyes sliding over the pale, bare skin of her arms and calves. She shrugged, her blonde waves settling with a bounce against her cheek.

"I am, very much, but it can… well it can get a bit exhausting when you don't recognize anybody," she replied, smiling. A dimple appeared in her right cheek. "I feel like my head's going to explode if I memorize one more face. I'm terrible with names, by tomorrow morning I'll hardly remember a thing."

"Then let's skip the names," Cal said, his easy charm seeping out like a cold sweat, "And make it easier on both of us. I wouldn't want to be responsible for your head exploding."

"Very kind of you," she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, "But you needn't concern yourself. I already know who you are."

Cal opened his mouth to respond but he was interrupted by Miriam, who swept by in a hurricane of perfume and beaded necklaces, giggling and tripping over her own shoes as she and a blonde man in his thirties tumbled into the next room.

"That's your wife?" the young woman asked, one shapely dark eyebrow arching.

"Yes," Cal replied, adjusting the lapels of his tuxedo. Good old Miriam, always game to make a fool of herself and – by association – Cal.

"She's… rather elegant."

"You don't need to do that," Cal said, dismissing her compliment with a wave of his hand. "I know what she is. I hope you'll excuse her; Miriam was always under the impression that fashion and manners didn't apply to her. And it was true once, before she became a skeletal harpy."

"Time is cruel and indiscriminate," the young woman replied, casting a long, appraising gaze in the direction Miriam had gone. Cal didn't like the way this girl looked after his wife; he was not fond of Miriam but he didn't want a stranger judging him solely on the basis of his wife's many indiscretions. But then the young woman turned back to him, grinning, her long neck stretching a little, giving him a glance at the hollow between her clavicles. What a delightful spot, Cal mused, watching the way the light played over her collar bones.

She was watching him closely, not just glancing, but studying, observing. An unfamiliar sensation, a lost, hidden and scary sensation stirred in Cal under the pressure of her eyes. Cal detected something hard in her gaze, something closed off and remote. And yet she wasn't resistant or contained or even particularly composed, she looked positively wild with her bare calves and her shoulder blades on display for the world to see. Cal recognized a familiar aimlessness in her pose, a posture that he himself had adopted. He shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable, disquieted.

"You shouldn't be seen talking to me," Cal said, reclaiming the young woman's attention, "Not if you have any intention of making it in this circle."

"Is that so? I came over exactly because everyone is fastidiously avoiding you. That almost always happens to the most interesting person in the room."

"Cal Hockley," he said with a cautious smile, intrigued by and afraid of her as he raised his half-empty drink.

"Harper Watley Sutton," she replied. Cal chuckled on the inside; so she was one of those progressive types, a woman who touted around her maiden name as if it were some kind of shield, an excuse. Obnoxious.

"Ah. The houseguest," Cal observed. Of course she had to be young, beautiful and open; he noted with a wry smirk that she was nothing like his father had described. She was hardly the stiff, nose-gazing old bat he had expected.

"I thought I should introduce myself," Mrs. Sutton said brightly, "Nathan pointed you out."

"So I'm _not_ the most interesting person in the room after all?"

"That remains to be seen, Mr. Hockley. I know embarrassingly little about you. Only that your Nathan's son and the gossips say that you're a bit of a reckless drunk. But that's only a rumor."

"Then let's pour me another drink and find out, shall we?"

To his surprise, Mrs. Sutton stood at once and pushed through the crowd to where a young man was preparing drinks. She chose a single malt Scotch from behind the rail and took a glass tumbler along with the entire bottle. She returned to Cal and splashed a liberal portion into his glass, making her own neat whiskey just as strong. Falling back into her chair, she placed the bottle on the black lacquered, square Ruhlmann end table between them.

"To your health," Cal said, toasting her.

Mrs. Sutton drained the glass, not overtly but expertly, with no show or fuss.

"So," she said, grinning at him, "Are you reckless yet?"

Cal mistrusted the glimmer in her large blue eyes. Fear, caution, gripped his chest. Even for someone of her young age she was being too forward, too friendly, casually ignoring the customary and polite introductory conversation that one was required to have. Not even Miriam would ask him something so ridiculous. He wanted to brush it aside but couldn't, realizing with a jolt that he was about to undo any goodwill he might have built in the last few minutes.

"No, but I _am_ confused," Cal replied, feeling dangerously bolstered by the whisky. As usual, after drink four or five he began spinning out of control. And yet he couldn't help it, the desire to push her, top her, was consuming.

"Confused?" she repeated.

"Yes, confused. I'm trying to figure out who exactly you think you're fooling."

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Sutton murmured, her smile vanishing.

"The hair, the dress," he said, smirking, "the drinking, the perfectly orchestrated, tedious acts of rebellion." Cal wasn't sure what had come over him, but he felt rattled, threatened, and he couldn't allow it to go on. The roof of his mouth was beginning to ache as if his wound had reemerged to plague him. "It isn't working, you know. You're a married woman, Mrs. Sutton. This breezy good-time gal charade, this glamorous life… such luxury, such freedom and still you're just an errand girl for a cripple half a world away."

In the frosty silence that followed, Harper Sutton's eyes never left his. Cal felt a pang of regret as her gaze, which had a moment ago been kind and sweet, became openly hostile. She stood, her hand trembling a little as she placed her empty Scotch tumbler on the Ruhlmann table. She was young, so hopelessly young.

"I heard about your accident," she said quietly. "I'm very sorry."

"Thank you," Cal replied, coloring, embarrassed by her concern.

"The next time you decide to have an accident," Mrs. Sutton said, collecting her little beaded purse, "May I suggest you use a rifle? Or perhaps a shotgun, at least a twelve gauge. At that range it's impossible to miss."

Cal stared blankly, his mouth flapping. She turned to go, her bare skin as iridescent as white gold in the candlelight. "Good evening, Mr. Hockley, a pleasure making your acquaintance."

Harper Sutton returned to the party in a black mood. She wasn't sure what made her more furious, the fact that Cal Hockley had just insulted she and her husband in the same breath or that he had done so within mere moments of making her acquaintance. This was going to be much more difficult than she had expected and – she thought with a grimace – a far greater chore. He was supposed to be unraveling, vulnerable, but he had bit back at her like a snappish wolf.

And even though she generally welcomed challenges, embraced them, Hockley's hair-trigger temper planted a dangerous seed in her head. Perhaps they had miscalculated; perhaps she should concoct a letter with a sudden family illness to give herself an out.

_ It's your first try, don't be such a fool._

Harper whipped up a dazzling smile for Nathan Hockley, who hovered around the liquor table, his mustache quivering as he watched the pretty girls go by. What a disgusting old pervert, she thought, gliding up to him in her little black number with a sly wink. Nathan was easy. If only his son were the same.

"And how did you two get on?" Nathan asked anxiously, his gelatinous bulk stuffed with terrifying determination into his too-small tuxedo. Harper swallowed a shudder.

"You were right," Harper lied with a peal of glittering laughter, "He's perfectly charming."

As charming as a starved hyena, she added silently.

"He's always the life of the party," Nathan replied, clearly oblivious to the fact that nobody was giving Cal the time of day, except maybe his loyal servants. "He'll have to give you a tour of the new mill tomorrow. It's a beauty."

"Nathan, stop, you know there should never be business talk at a party," Harper said, swatting him with her purse. "Aren't I allowed to have a relaxing week? You promised Roger I would be wined and dined and entertained."

"And haven't I delivered so far?"

"Touché," Harper replied, winking again. She hated herself, hated the way this character fit over her true self like a snug little glove. "What do you have planned for tomorrow? Is it a surprise? You know I adore surprises."

"You'll have to ask my son," Nathan said, devouring a cracker crammed with caviar and cream cheese. "I've put him in charge of your stay. He knows all the best restaurants, all the finest cafes and theatres. I'm certain he'll have a delightful day in store for you. And Miriam is desperate to take you shopping. New York is the best, of course, but I'm told we have a few gems here and there."

"I can't wait. It sounds superb." Harper said, unleashing the full sparkle of her smile on him. Nathan swooned a little, his face turning lobster red. The party was winding down, the band announcing their final song. This was the perfect time, she decided, to make a smooth exit.

"Nathan, I hope you'll forgive me but I'm just so exhausted," Harper said, frowning demurely. "I haven't had so much fun in months, but I think it's worn me out. Would you be heartbroken if I retired a little early?

"Of course not, Mrs. Sutton, of course not!" he said, instantly becoming businesslike. He bustled her toward the stairs, clucking at her for staying even a moment too long. "Your health, Mrs. Sutton, we must think of your health!"

"You're too kind," Harper said, pausing on the first step of the grand staircase. "Thank you for everything, it was a magical evening. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Perhaps," Nathan said, "But I practically live at the office these days. Besides, dear, I'm too old for these diversions; I know Miriam and my son will be only too delighted to keep you busy. But I will say _au revoir_ and not goodbye."

"_Au revoir_," Harper replied, brushing her lips against his hot, clammy cheek. Then she turned and flitted up the stairs, her silken skirts kicking up around her legs, knowing perfectly well that everyone in the room was watching her go.

Upstairs and out of view, Harper sighed, her shoulders sagging wearily as she pulled off her heels and padded down the hall. She passed one of the smaller guest rooms and heard giggling from inside. For no discernible reason, she stopped, listening at the door, transfixed by the muted voices seeping out from under the door.

"You're so sweet, just like sugar. I'm going to lick you up."

"Naughty boy, stop that! How could you!"

Harper smiled sadly; no one on earth could mistake that reply for an actual refusal. The couple sounded young, a little tipsy, and Harper slunk away feeling silly. She shouldn't have listened; what a rude, vulgar thing to do. It wasn't any of her business what other people got up to and it didn't disgust her, morally or otherwise, but it did follow her down the hall, dogging her steps like a vengeful ghost. Their giggling rang hard in her head. She wanted that. She was young, only twenty-five, and yet each of her giggles, each of her smiles was part of a carefully planned performance. None of it was frivolous or spontaneous. Her head swimming from drinks, she opened the door to her room and slid back against the door, dreaming of an escape. Roger was across an ocean, and more than that, he was distant in the worst, most important ways. She remembered with ease the first trip she had taken on his behalf, when she still loved him, when she still felt giddy at the idea of having him alone and to herself.

Paris had been exquisite, everything London wasn't. The people, the opera, the ballet! The French had been so embracing, so delicious and liberated! She drank in the free-spirited decadence with an open heart, but all the while she yearned for Roger, for his dry sense of humor and his kind eyes and his love. His love. Then it had felt like a talisman, a symbol of everything she had been raised to want and need. She had missed him so, finding that every happy moment was a little dimmer without his presence. But with every trip after that bittersweet longing slipped further and further away, until her travels were just bittersweet without any longing at all. What had changed? Reasons, cruelly aloof, escaped her.

The servants had been in to tidy while Harper diverted herself downstairs at the party. The bed was made, a fire burning low in the grate, a mug of tea waiting on the bedside table. Harper slid out of her dress, hanging it in the open wardrobe. Her slip and undergarments followed and she tied a lace peignoir around her waist and removed her jewelry. As she climbed beneath the coverlet to read, a nagging thought cropped up in the back of her mind. Harper confronted it with a belabored sigh, wishing the champagne and whisky would be enough to dull her keen sense of curiosity. Yet there it was, that annoying, insistent thought just waiting, hovering…

_Reckless_.

She couldn't escape the feeling that she was in danger, inches away from springing a fatal trap. Harper trusted her instincts, they had always served her well, and this growing trepidation was nothing she could ignore. The whole house, beneath its veneer of cheer and wealth, was startlingly cold and full of dread. There was something dark and shadowy lurking, not a ghost or a demon, nothing tangible, just a creeping despair, like mold or moss. Harper couldn't help but think of Hockley, of his "accident." The man had tried to eat his gun, but looking at him now one would never guess it. Even if he were sad, even if his eyes were dull while his smile sparkled, he just didn't seem like the type. Vain people didn't commit suicide.

And yet if Harper were forced to stay in this place she could see it, imagine such an outcome feeling like the only choice. How did they stand it?

All at once she felt a strong and unexpected wave of sympathy crash over her, sympathy for Cal Hockley of all people. She bit down on her lower lip in rage, reminded in a flash of his arrogance, his bestial swaggering attitude.

_ Such luxury, such freedom and still you're just an errand girl for a cripple half a world away._

There it was, the urgent stinging that refused to go away. Harper hesitated to call it pride, but what else could it be? Why else would she have such a distinct and potent urge to throw open the doors of the guest room, stalk the halls of Hockley manor in her lacy peignoir and throttle Cal Hockley with her bare hands? No, it was just shocking, startling, and that was all. Harper hadn't lied to Nathan in one respect: she loved surprises. She loved them because she so rarely got to experience one. And Cal had indeed surprised her with his outburst. She didn't love it, not at all, but she could see now why her mind dwelled on their brief exchange. He had responded to her overtures not with curiosity or elation but suspicion and hostility. What a strange man, she thought, and how interesting.

In her mind's eye Harper saw the deep red daisy on his lapel, like a splash of blood, a wound.

Harper wasn't foolish enough to believe that Cal had snapped at her for no reason at all. Harper had upset him, triggered a reaction that was as involuntary as his snobbery and his drinking. And like a mortal of old angering a god, she had tripped up somewhere along the way and provoked his retaliatory spirit. That didn't excuse his cruelty, but it certainly explained it.

Shaking her head, Harper reached for the tea on the bedside table. She sipped it slowly as she searched for the right chapter in her book. Roger's letter was still languishing on the floor, wedged just an inch below the bed frame. If the servants had seen it they had purposely avoided removing or shifting it. Harper reached down, balancing her teacup carefully, and plucked it from the floorboards. She placed her husband's letter on the bedside table, well away from her person and her book. The tea was still vaguely warm and it felt soothing, a small, welcome comfort. It reminded her of home, of the house in Knightsbridge with the trendy, cosmopolitan view of London and its ancient, sodden streets.

Harper continued reading, finishing her tea and snuggling down into the bed. The tea and the good literary company, she decided, would ward off whatever wandering shadowy spirits lived in Hockley manor. The fire had dwindled down to just a scattering of glowing embers, but Harper felt protected, invulnerable.

_ It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we would assume like a garment with which to appear before the world._


	5. Chapter 5

"Miriam? No, I'm afraid she's out."

"Out? Oh."

Cal glanced over the edge of his paper. Inexplicably, he had chosen to spend his morning in the east salon. The sunlight was magnificent there in the morning, spilling in through the bay windows in sprawling, unbridled swaths of twinkling gold. Mrs. Sutton was standing in the salon now, watching him apprehensively, neat and tidy in her simple drop-waist sundress. It was a creamy yellow silk trimmed in very dark teal, ideal for the weather and time of year. Cal sipped his coffee, unmolested by her presence, and stretched out his long legs in front of him.

"Were you expecting to see her?" Cal asked, rustling the paper.

"Not really," Mrs. Sutton replied, "But your father did mention that she might have had an interest in shopping."

"I see."

He sat behind a small, antique walnut writing desk, his modest breakfast laid out on a shining silver service. The room was composed of three round nooks, each embellished with a series of tall windows. It was the perfect room to sit and lounge in on a pleasant afternoon, with plush window seats made for languishing in the sunshine. The servants had done up the room for spring and summer, replacing the heavy winter curtains with lighter blocked colors of ivory and celadon.

Cal folded the business section of the paper, finished with it, and moved on to Society and Culture. There was a new ballet in town; Miriam would probably become a pest if he didn't offer to go. It might be something to mention to Mrs. Sutton, if she wasn't already preparing to depart. He was surprised to see her lingering in the salon; he thought perhaps she would storm out at the first sight of him. And if she had? Well, he couldn't blame her. Apparently she was not only young and pretty but also resilient.

"Any plans for the day, Mrs. Sutton?" Cal asked casually, skimming over the engagements.

"Me? Well… no, not exactly. I had thought… Do you know when Miriam will be back?"

"Not a clue."

Actually, he did have a clue, but he preferred to watch Mrs. Sutton flounder in her desperate need to be coddled and spoiled and bustled from diversion to diversion. Jeffrey had announced that Miriam was out and about with a certain Mrs. Fraser and if she was with Mrs. Fraser then she was spending the day with John Weston and wouldn't be back until late. Weston had a thing for cabaret and would probably insist on taking Miriam and humiliating her. He liked that sort of thing, Weston, degrading a woman by making her confront younger and livelier girls. Mrs. Sutton wasn't satisfied with his answer, standing with her back painfully straight. Cal sighed behind his paper, draining the coffee cup with a wince at its bitter dregs.

"I need to go in to the office soon," Cal said, arranging things idly on the desk. He avoided looking at Mrs. Sutton, whose strawberry blonde hair was particularly becoming in the striking light. Cal would also not look at her bare ankles, which were clad in shimmery flesh-toned hose, or the lush, cherry-colored rosebud of her lips. "Jeffrey can arrange a car for you if you'd like to go downtown."

Mrs. Sutton hesitated, very still, her big blue eyes imploring him to be kind. Cal ignored this, standing and straightening his sober gray vest. He liked that suit. It was strong, confident and it gave him authority. He used that authority just now, striding over to Mrs. Sutton with the paper tucked beneath his arm. She was shorter than he remembered, but then again he hadn't gotten an accurate sense of her height the night before. Cal stopped a few feet from her, perplexed and miffed to find that Mrs. Sutton smelled unmistakably of lavender and a delicate, unnamable scent, clover perhaps, or a field after a purifying rain. Cal stared down at her, suddenly angry, as if she had worn this scent with the sly intent of throwing him off.

He knew her—at least, he knew her kind--and he would not be misled.

"Yes," she said at last, keeping his gaze until Cal was forced, out of politeness, to break it. "Yes, I'll ask Jeffrey if the urge takes me."

"Good day, Mrs. Sutton."

"Good day, Mr. Hockley."

Now Harper was absolutely certain there had been a miscommunication. She had agreed to the visit with the understanding that she would actually see Mr. and Mrs. Hockley. The front doors shut quietly behind her, signaling that she had been left more or less alone and to her own devices. The butler, Jeffrey, hovered nearby, ready to do her bidding at a moment's notice. She didn't feel like going out, not by herself.

"Jeffrey, could you have my breakfast brought out to the gardens? I think I'd like to sit out of doors for a while," she said, turning and smiling at him. Harper could play the forlorn ingénue to perfection, and found that just now that character seemed to make Jeffrey's face soften. Making friends among the servants was always instrumental to a pleasant stay; the unseen hands in the kitchen and backrooms often had just as much influence as the house owners themselves.

"Of course, Mrs. Sutton," he replied, "Right away."

"Don't rush," she said, frowning a little. "I'm not in any hurry, am I?"

Jeffrey inclined his head sympathetically and Harper knew that she was well on her way to winning his favor. Someone like Jeffrey, whose entire profession revolved around pleasing his superiors, would probably take offense at the Hockleys and their shocking behavior. Leaving a guest alone in a house with nothing to do was simply not the done thing; Harper wondered if Miriam would return by lunch. At least then she would have someone to distract her for the afternoon.

Outside the garden was hot, the morning sun crowning in the east and blazing down on the paved cobble path winding through the rows of roses and the beds of wildflowers and gerbera daisies. Harper recognized the same color of daisy she had seen on Mr. Hockley's lapel the night before. The colors were amazing, rich and saturated in the golden light, the blossoms' fragrances heady from the gathering heat.

Harper explored until she found a quaint stone table with a curved bench. A large canvas umbrella shaded the spot, which was near one of the outlying walls of the manor's gardens. The wall was in the process of being overrun by vines and morning glories, the stones gasping for air beneath the heavy carpet of green and purple.

As she sat in the cool, shaded spot she wished for her book. Then Harper remembered that she hadn't written Roger yet and that he would be disconsolate and sulky if she didn't reply soon. She crossed her legs and rested her elbows on the stone table, watching as a humming bird whirred between butterfly bushes, sticking its pointy little beak into the miniature cobalt cups. Jeffrey arrived a moment later, bringing with him a tray containing a light breakfast and a steaming pot of coffee.

"Jeffrey," she said sweetly, "You're a magician."

"Thank you, ma'am. I do try."

"Could I ask just one more thing of you?"

"Of course."

"I don't mean to be a bother but I've just remembered that I need to write my husband straight away. Could you hunt down a bit of paper and a pen?" she asked, pouring a jet of hot coffee into the china cup he had brought.

"With pleasure, ma'am," Jeffrey replied, turning and walking stiffly through the florid garden. He looked strange in his strict black suit, so crisp and upright among the wild, untamable growth of the hedges and daisies. Harper plucked two sugar cubes from the dish and plopped them into her coffee, stirring it with a tiny silver spoon. Then she spread raspberry preserves on a bit of bread and cracked open a hardboiled egg.

Harper ate slowly, prolonging the moment until she would have to think of Roger in earnest. What was there to say about her visit so far? She sighed, annoyed that her breakfast was being soured by the duties of marriage. It shouldn't be a duty to write your husband, Harper corrected herself silently, it should be a delight. Drumming up a grateful smile for Jeffrey's delivery of pen and paper was difficult; part of her wanted to ask him to please take it back, that she had changed her mind and wanted to spend the morning in peace, with a book and a good strong cup of coffee.

"Thank you, Jeffrey," Harper said instead, taking the materials from him with a dazzling flash of her teeth. "Now you've done more than enough for me and I won't trouble you again."

"It's no trouble," Jeffrey replied, removing her empty plates but leaving the coffee. "I'll return in an hour to see if you need anything, Mrs. Sutton."

The pen was leaden in her hand as she stared at the blank paper. She recalled Roger's simpering tone and decided to mimic it as best she could. A dull, sweet letter should keep him satisfied for a while. Perhaps a telegram would be better, more immediate and more suited to his clambering need for word from her. Just once Harper would have liked to not correspond at all, but inevitably that would drive Roger mad, mad enough to send the police and cause a terrible commotion. No, a letter would just have to be composed, even if it meant Harper would be in a sullen mood for the rest of the day.

_Dearest Roger_

Harper stared at the phrase for twenty minutes, sipping her coffee, making it last, avoiding the next step. What she wanted to say was something like:

Husband,

The people here are rude, uneducated and unimaginably self-centered, a lot like your family actually. They alternately ignore and flatter me and pretend that a party qualifies as real, genuine human interaction. I'm miserable and I want to come home, but I don't want to see you when I get there. Perhaps I'll take my money and leave you, go to Paris or Venice and live quietly and modestly without you breathing down my neck every minute of every godforsaken day. Goodbye, Roger. You will never see me again.

Regards,

Harper

Instead, she described Miriam and Caledon as kind, interesting people with a gorgeous, well-appointed home and flawless taste. She reported that Mr. Hockley was fully recovered from his dreadful accident and that he seemed in good spirits. Harper went on to say that she believed that very soon she would come to know him better and that it wouldn't be long before she could return home to London. She also assured him that the "developments" he had asked after were going well and that she should have good news soon. Harper read the letter over. The thing was vague and sterile from start to finish. She winced, adding a sentence or two of sentimental, gushing inanities at the very end. With a sigh of relief she quickly signed her name.

_ Your beloved wife._

"My word."

Harper looked up, startled, and dropped her pen on the ground. Her heart hammered in her chest; she had the sudden irrational fear that Roger had somehow magically transported himself to the garden to scold her for a lackluster letter. But the deep, masculine voice belonged to someone else, someone Harper had never seen before. Harper jumped to her feet, nearly banging her head on the umbrella over the table. She bent to pick up the wayward pen but the gentleman in the garden was already there, kneeling and gazing up at her with a pair of paralyzing dark blue eyes.

"So it's true," he murmured, standing and offering her the pen. He kept one hand casually tucked into his pocket. "I thought Miriam was exaggerating."

Harper reached for the pen, her gaze fixed on the man's wide, inviting smile and the dashing cleft in his chin. "Excuse me," he said, "I'm being awfully rude, aren't I? Sometimes I forget myself. Guy Draven."

This time when he extended his hand it was empty and Harper slid her fingers into his, ready for a handshake, not nearly prepared for him to whisk her hand to his lips. His eyes stayed glued to hers as he kissed her knuckles gently; his lips were warm in the cool shade of the wall. Harper felt a deep, answering flutter in her stomach. There was nothing unusual about a man fussing over her but under most circumstances they didn't look anything like this man. Harper wasn't sure what it was about him that made her legs threaten to turn to jelly, but part of her wanted badly to find out.

"It's okay," he said gently, "You don't have to introduce yourself if you don't want. I like a bit of suspense."

Then he threw back his head and laughed and at once Harper pinpointed what was different and mesmerizing about Mr. Draven: he was happy, honestly, genuinely, immodestly happy. Harper had a talent for reading people and she came across a person like Mr. Draven so rarely that she had almost forgotten what it was like to stand in the presence of true contentment. His big smile was guileless, his manner open and friendly and warm without being overtly masculine or threatening. When Mr. Hockley unleashed his smile it was like the unsheathing of a sword, but Mr. Draven had all of Cal's charm with none of his bite.

Rarely, very rarely, Harper actually managed to feel like the young woman she was and under his eager gaze she felt hopelessly girlish.

"Harper Sutton," she said, clutching the pen for dear life, "And I didn't mean to leave you in suspense, but you gave me such a start."

"Ah yes. Well, why make an entrance at all unless you can make someone drop what they're doing in fright, right?" Mr. Draven laughed again and Harper joined in.

"How can I make it up to you?" he asked, taking a seat on one of the stone benches at the table. Harper sat down across from him, crossing her ankles primly. Her face felt hot and she suddenly wished for a cool, stiff drink.

"You can start by telling me what Mrs. Hockley said," Harper replied, "With exaggerations or otherwise, it's up to you."

"I ran into Miriam uptown," Guy said, pulling a cigarette case from inside his lightweight suit. It was well-made, stylish, with a lovely contrasting pale yellow vest. At last, Harper thought with a smirk, a man of fashion. His hair was dark brown, swept immaculately back from his forehead and he was clean shaven, his strong jaw in no need of definition from a beard.

"I was a little surprised to see her out and about. I thought she would be with you, showing you the sights," he said.

"Does everybody in Pennsylvania know I'm in town?" Harper asked.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, offering her a cigarette. She took one, leaning in to catch the flame of his offered match. Harper pulled away quickly, straying out of his orbit before she could become distracted by his faint cologne. "It's not every day a fair English rose wanders into our humble city."

"You're being obtuse," Harper replied with a smirk, "Willingly. What did Mrs. Hockley say?"

"Ha. Of course – beautiful, young and just my type," Guy said.

"Married?"

"Brief," he corrected, snorting out a puff of smoke through his nostrils, "I'm a newspaper man, have been all my life. I can appreciate brevity in all its forms."

"And so?" Harper prompted. She was beginning to see that his refusal to answer her questions was flirtatious rather than malicious. He indulged in another dazzling smile.

"Mrs. Hockley—rightly, I might add—said you were a dead ringer for Leila Hyams."

"Who _is_ this woman?" Harper cried, exasperated.

"Well," Mr. Draven began, leaning back and raking his deep blue eyes over Harper's face, "She's an actress, a beautiful woman, stunning really. But I gather you guessed as much?"

"I don't know her."

"That's not the interesting part, I'm afraid," he replied, chuckling again, "_You're_ the interesting part."

"What else did Mrs. Hockley say?"

"Who cares?" Mr. Draven replied quickly, "She's irrelevant."

"Mr. Draven," she scolded, raising her eyebrows.

"Please, it's Guy. And you know I'm right. Miriam… She's a dear but she hasn't got much in the way of… well… brains."

"And that's the word of a gentleman!" Harper exclaimed, unable to stifle her incredulous laughter, nor could she stifle the thought that Mr. Draven—Guy—was right.

"My dear Mrs. Sutton," Guy said, leaning in closer, "I never claimed to be a gentleman."

"Then what a clever ruse," she replied, falling prey to his infectious smile, "The clothing, the fine cigarettes and the fine way you smoke them, the air of ease and comfort, all signs of a gentleman and yet I've been deceived."

"You've caught me out! I do hope you're prepared to take my terrible secret to your grave."

"Stop teasing."

"Stop making it so very tempting," he said, perfectly serious.

Harper paused, afraid, finding that she had drifted to an unpredictable, spontaneous part of herself that she had quite forgotten. Mr. Draven possessed a peculiar talent for obliterating one's sense of propriety.

"Are you married, Mr. Draven?"

"Guy. Why? Should I be flattered?"

"Now I'm afraid your imagination's run away with you."

"What a pity, and here I was hoping you'd run away with me," he said, finishing his cigarette. He seemed to relish the scandalized look Harper undoubtedly wore. Guy's face softened, a shadow passing over his smile.

"And no," he added, "I'm not married, Mrs. Sutton."

" - Harper."

"Harper," he said, pronouncing her name slowly, deliberately. "I'm widowed."

"Heavens," she breathed, regretting at once asking him about his marriage, "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," he said quietly. He glanced down at his hands; over his shoulder a blue and green humming bird whizzed by, buzzing like a troop of bees. It was a unique vulnerability of the truly free and happy, thought Harper, the ability to sink deeply into emotions without warning. Someone like Cal, someone like herself, would have done everything in their power to keep the conversation light and inconsequential, dodging the urge to show even the smallest hint of grief. Harper wanted to touch his hand and nearly did, struck silent and sad by the change in his stormy eyes.

"And will you marry again?" she asked, not certain why she wanted, needed, to know. The thought of this man living the rest of his life alone made her hopelessly sad.

"I could," he replied slowly, "But I'm in no rush. You know what they say – Marry in haste, repent at leisure."

Harper felt her body ice into an uncomfortable position. Her shoulders refused to relax, her spine tingling with irritation. She knew it was probably an unpleasant expression, but she couldn't help herself. Harper stubbed out her cigarette, mistrusting her hands, which had become so tremulous that it was impossible to hide. Mr. Draven leaned forward, his caring eyes trained closely on her dismayed expression.

"I've upset you."

"No… It's nothing," Harper said, letting her upbringing take over. She squashed the horrible dark feeling in her mind, the one that replayed Mr. Draven's words over and over again. If she didn't keep it together she would be shaking from head to foot. She dredged up a cool, calculated smile for Mr. Draven, forcing the corners of her mouth to cooperate. Mr. Draven was apparently difficult to fool, his eyes no less concerned as Harper gave him her trained smile.

"Did you come to see Mr. Hockley?" she asked, folding her hands tightly together in her lap.

"Sure," Mr. Draven replied, his dark, thick eyebrows still meeting in apprehension, "At least that's what I'll tell Cal when I see him."

"He's not here," Harper said. "I believe he's at his office."

"And he left you here all by yourself?"

"Not exactly," Harper replied, feeling the tremor of fear lessen by the minute. She felt safely away from the dangerous subject that had given her that sudden jolt. "There's Jeffrey, of course, and I have my books and my affairs to see to."

"Your _books_?" Mr. Draven repeated, laughing boisterously. "I don't mean to laugh at you, Mrs. Sutton, but that sounds absolutely dreadful. You've come all this way to read by yourself in a garden? Goodness. Cal has no idea what to do with you, does he? I suppose that's not so very shocking."

"I beg your pardon? What do you mean by that?"

"Listen, Mrs. Sutton," he said, leaning toward her again, his concern replaced by a radiant curiosity. Harper was having a devil of a time guessing his age; he seemed timeless, eternally youthful. "I'll let you in on a little secret: I've known Cal since… Since I can't even remember. And I can promise you, one thing Cal's never been good with is women."

"I doubt that," Harper said quietly.

"Oh no, no, not in that way," Mr. Draven replied, finishing his cigarette, "Romantically Cal's always had his pick, that's true enough. But when it comes to women like yourself I can safely say he's about as comfortable as a pig in a slaughter house."

Harper grinned despite herself. "Women like myself? And what pray tell am I?"

"That's hard to say," Mr. Draven replied coyly, "We've only just met, after all."

"Then make an educated guess, Mr. Draven."

"Do you vote, Mrs. Sutton?" he asked, his dark blue eyes dancing with mischief.

"Of course I vote."

"Right, well Mrs. Caledon Hockley has never cast a ballot in her life," Mr. Draven said, smirking, "In fact, she thinks it's a powerful statement that she abstains from any and all political involvement. And I know this because she explains her, how shall I say, _unorthodox_ views at great length at every dinner party, brunch and race day." He paused, his rich, deep laugh filling up the garden as he looked at Harper. "I can tell by your reaction that you find such a stance nothing to boast about."

"It's more than that," Harper said, her voice hushed by her outrage, "It's… absurd, absolutely outrageous!"

"Is the picture taking shape in your mind yet?"

"Certainly," Harper replied, "But I think it's cruel to judge a man by the character of the woman he's chosen to marry."

"Is it? And if I judged you by your husband, would that be cruel?"

"N-no," Harper muttered, unable to stop her nervous stammering, "I stand by my husband in all respects."

Mr. Draven nodded, taking out his cigarette case again. Then he seemed to think better of it and put the case back in his coat pocket. He took a cream-colored handkerchief from his suit coat and dabbed at his forehead. The garden was growing warm and Harper saw her opportunity to dodge inside; Mr. Draven and his quick, penetrating eyes made her unduly nervous.

"You said that you've known Mr. Hockley for many years, did you meet at college?"

"Oh goodness no," Mr. Draven replied, tucking his handkerchief away. "We attended the Wentworth School." He seemed to be preparing to launch into a longer history but stopped, grinning and getting to his feet. He extended his hand and Harper found herself taking it without a second thought. "It's too warm out here," he said, pulling her in so that he could hook her hand around his arm, "I'll take you inside and you can ask anything you like about our school days."

Harper nodded, watching a swallow swoop low over the garden and disappear under the eaves of the manor. His suit smelled sweetly of linen and his aftershave was faint and dark, like a morning mist. Harper felt lightheaded, unaccustomed to being so friendly so quickly. They were at the door when she remembered the letter she had composed to Roger; she had left it on the garden table. She hesitated, tugging a little on Mr. Draven's elbow. He followed her gaze.

"We'll send Jeffrey out for your things," he said, "Unless of course you'd prefer a book to my company?"

"I _do_ have a fondness for books," Harper replied mischievously, eyeing the sunny garden table. She drank in his comically hurt expression.

"Mrs. Sutton, I'm offended. You mustn't tease."

"You mustn't make it so tempting," she replied, reveling in his roar of laughter.

"And there you have me," he said, escorting her inside, "But I can't say that I mind."


End file.
